


something awful and sublime

by livid



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Assassination, Brainwashing, Dissociation, F/M, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, complete nonsense, the culmination of six years of art history
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 22:50:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2669333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/livid/pseuds/livid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Winter Soldier visits the Winter Palace</p>
            </blockquote>





	something awful and sublime

**Author's Note:**

> I posted this before, but it's back again, hah

The sound of the tide is soothing. Familiar. He remembers: submerging; screaming; the glint of gold hair through grey water. A slender, breakable wrist.

The sky is bright with the glow from the buildings. A chalky, wet grey. Light spills out in columns. One after the other.

He moves.

He moves.

He moves.

 

* * *

 

The mission goes pliant underneath him. Drunk, already. Limp with fear.

There is music. The whisper of shoes on marble. Laughter. A chair clattering to the floor.

"I knew -," the mission says.

The asset puts his hands at the base of her skull. Gentle. Like a lover.

There is a wetness at the edge of her eyes.

"Please."

It is not a mercy that he kills her first: it eliminates the risk of noise. The risk that she might scream.

The leaves her at the base of the stairs. Her legs twisted unnaturally. Ankle turned and swollen. There is an indent in the shape of a banister along her left temple - where the sphenoparietal suture has turned in to pierce the brain. It will look like she fell.

It is not a mercy.

 

* * *

 

The halls are wide. Tall. Empty.

The security is lax. Lackluster. Disillusioned. Hungry.

He remembers: the foul taste of spam; screaming; blue eyes in the firelight; the low, clutching pangs.

The sound of the tide is soothing.

 

* * *

 

He moves through the empty corridors. The ceilings are high. He hugs the walls. Stays deep within the shadows. The panelling is fine and gilded where it does not brush his arm. Stucco architraves. Dips and turns and filigree.

He could crush it with the touch of a finger.

 

* * *

 

There are voices.

Wet, hacking crying. The rustle of fabric in the dark.

Stragglers, from the function. Scurrying like mice.

"Don't you love me?" the voice spits, and the asset passes.

"Why did you lie? Why did you tell me you loved me?"

A sound. The crack of muscle and bone.

He remembers: an alley; screaming; a wry grin and blood on the teeth. A body in the shape of a mother. Bruises black and blue on the skin.

 

* * *

 

His hands are dark and dripping. His mouth tastes like pennies. Sweet.

He remembers: nothing.

 

* * *

 

A white whale: huge bright shape like a spectre.

Eyes, a face. No pulse.

Back bent. Mouth open.

A statue.

A statue.

Cold to the touch.

He remembers: a trench, a body, wide and sightless eyes; rapid fire; screaming; the heft of an orphaned gun.

Red smudges on white skin - here. Celluloid layering on top of itself. Ghosts and mirrors and -

He remembers: the scuff of his shoes on marble; fingers hovering over the slick wet paint; _don't touch it buck - you think they need an excuse to throw us out_ ; narrow shoulders; pink lips; _you know I wasn't gonna_.

Four men. An asset, kneeling. Luminescent in a pool of sunlight. Skin glowing, so bright the whole world is shadowed. An asset, kneeling. Their hands gentle on his shoulder. Slick wet paint, but - flaky. Old.

An asset, kneeling. Head bowed and flat on the sternum, mouth gasping out a prayer. A benediction. Lit up from the inside by something awful and sublime.

 

* * *

 

_present you faultless before the presence of his glory with exceeding joy_

 

* * *

 

He remembers: the smell of rotting fish; charcoal on his work shirt; _you're gonna be hanging up here one day stevie - botticelli 'cept a weedy irish punk;_ laughter muffled in the back of his hand, into the lapel of his jacket.

Blood. Blood on his hands.

_you'd think that guy'd never seen a dame before_

He remembers: a groaning narrow staircase, accusation in his sister's eyes.

Cool, clammy hands, digging into the meat of his arms.

 

* * *

 

Yelling, at a distance.

The asset snaps the handler's neck.

 

* * *

 

The grass is cold and damp, crisp beneath his feet.

He remembers: bodies like rotten fruit, broken open and spilling.

 

* * *

 

_domination and power, both now and ever_

* * *

A boat. Stone on a dais.

Tile like a sunburst beneath his feet.

Frames and ... arabesques.

A ripple on the wall in the shape of a - garden. A long hall and pillars like gravestones.

Yelling, somewhere close.

 

* * *

 

The sound of the tide is soothing.

Lights on the water. Sky black like tar.

Chalky, flaky, old.

 

* * *

 

The asset remembers: concrete; screaming;  submerging; a hand on the back of his neck. Gentle. Like a lover.

 

* * *

 

_what's with all the fuckin dogs_

_purity, chastity, y'know, if you remember what those are_

 

* * *

 

_I'm sure you're familiar enough for the both of us_

 

* * *

 

"there's fucking blood everywhere"

 

 

"fuck is that brain matter"

 

 

"I thought it was meant to be discreet"

 

* * *

 

He remembers: calluses catching in silk hosiery; motor oil on his fingers; the low, clutching pangs. A face silhouetted against a staccato fish pond, a guard eyeing them warily from the door.

 

* * *

 

He remembers: feet in cool, wet sand; face buried, burning, in a pillow. A wet, hacking cough. His mother's favourite wooden spoon. The shape of his father's fist.

 

A body in the shape of a sister, face swollen like a blister.

A wetness at the edge of her eyes.

 

* * *

 

_they always look so fuckin smug_

_guess you can relate_

_I'll have you know I've worked real fuckin hard to cultivate this air of self satisfaction_

_whether or not you deserve it..._

_least I have a couple redeeming features, jerk, unlike you_

_never killed anybody I guess_

_didn't send a million suckers off to die for king and country_

_don't start_

_didn't say nothin_

_sometimes you don't get a choice in war_

_easy to say when you're on the one on the horse_

 

* * *

 

"buck"

 

 

 

 

 

"hey buck"

 

* * *

 

He remembers: a curtain of red, silky, like water through his fingers; cold feet pressing into his thigh. A wet, hacking cough.

Blonde hair glinting in the dark. Wide shoulders. A gun like a child in his hands.

 

 

 

"buck"

 

 

 

Bodies like rotten fruit, broken open and spilling.

 

* * *

 

"never could drag you away from this place"

"I know pal, but -"

"not supposed to be in here after hours, this time they're gonna ban us for sure"

"we gotta go"

Yelling, at a distance.

The wet crack of breaking bone.

His fist. Lights on the polished metal.

"think I hurt someone"

Blue eyes, crinkled. Cold hands, digging into his forearm.

Pale skin smeared with blood.

"'m so sorry"

"I know, pal"

"'m sorry"

"we really gotta go"

 

* * *

 

A hand on the back of his neck. Rough, fingers catching on the skin.

He remembers: the chair.

The sound of the tide is soothing.

 

* * *

 

He screams.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://www.li-v-id.tumblr.com)!


End file.
